


Dream

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1979205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth lies down on her makeshift pillow, blinks over at him in the darkness.  He senses the movement of her hand, knows that she's touching the cross on its delicate chain around her neck.  "You came, too," she says softly.  "That says somethin', Daryl."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Post-"Still". Written for tumblr's Bethyl Week, Day Five. Prompt: "dream".
> 
> * * *

Daryl slouches on one of the pews while Beth wanders up the aisle, her fingers trailing along the back of each bench as she makes her way to the front of the church. She drifts over to the organ, pulls out the bench and plays a couple of chords. The discordant jangle makes her mock-shudder and grin at him over her shoulder.

He wants to tell her that her voice is pretty enough without accompaniment, ask her if she sang in the choir when she was a kid, get her to sit down beside him on the hard, narrow pew and explain to him why a compassionate God let this happen to the world. But if there is a God – and he's pretty damn sure there ain't – he can't feel all that mad at the guy, anyway. If God hadn't fucked up he'd still be crashing on some junkie's sofa and getting shitfaced by noon.

But he says nothing, merely watches her push away from the bench and stroll over to the bank of candles arrayed beneath the image of a smiling saint. Her fingers flit over the tips of the wicks before she slings her backpack forward and starts loading the candles into the bag. 

He must make a noise then, because she stops with a handful of half-burnt candles in her arms, turns and leans against the railing and lifts a shoulder. "The bible says that the Lord helps those that help themselves," she tells him. "We need these a lot more than this church does."

He can't argue with that.

 

The rain is still coming down, pounding against the stained glass windows and dappling the nave in shifting shadows, when they decide to settle in for the night. Beth curls on her side, her backpack as a pillow, and Daryl eyes the altar cloth for a moment before pulling it from the table and draping it over her. 

Her eyebrows draw together when she sees him flop down on the other side of the aisle. "We can share?"

"Nah," he says. "Ain't cold."

She shrugs, but tucks the cloth more closely around her and props her head up to watch him as he lays down on his back. "Good thing you knew about this place," she says after a moment. "How _did_ you know about it?" 

Daryl swivels his head toward her, blinks at her across the aisle. "Merle used to fu …used to date this girl. Marlene, Madeleine. Something like that. She lived out this way. Used to drag us out here every damn Sunday."

That relationship didn't last long – Merle's relationships never did – but he still remembers the girl. Long red hair, big tits, and able to drink Merle under the table three times out of five. She'd wake them up and drag them bleary-eyed and hung-over to the service every damn Sunday. Until she caught Merle fingering her friend underneath the table at Calhoun's one Friday night and nearly decapitated him with her stiletto. 

"We'd always sit in the same place, just inside the door," he continues, "and she'd crack her gum and whisper to my brother all through the service. Old ladies used to glare at her 'til I thought their heads was gonna explode."

Beth smiles. "Least she came."

"Never could figure out why," Daryl says. "Most profane woman I ever knew."

Beth lies down on her makeshift pillow, blinks over at him in the darkness. He senses the movement of her hand, knows that she's touching the cross on its delicate chain around her neck. "You came, too," she says softly. "That says somethin', Daryl."

"Yeah," he snorts out. "That I was too dumb to pull the blankets over my head and tell her to kiss my ass when she come and woke me up."

"Maybe," Beth says lightly. "Or maybe you ain't as much of an atheist as you claim you are, Daryl Dixon."

 

He blinks open his eyes to see Beth hovering over him. The candlelight flickers over her unbound hair, and for a moment all he can do is stare into her eyes, breathless at the sight of her. "Walkers?" he murmurs.

She shakes her head, tendrils of her hair brushing across his bare chest, making him shiver. "I'm cold," she says.

He glances down at the blanket draped over his legs, makes a move to sit up and hand it to her. But her hand presses against his chest, pushes him back. "Maybe… maybe you could just hold me? Just for a while?"

She's already laying down beside him, and his arm has a mind of its own, comes up around her shoulders to pull her tight against him. She rests her head against his chest, and he feels the curve of her smile when she hears how fast his heart is racing. 

"You don't have to be nervous, Daryl," she says, raising her head to meet his eyes. "I don't bite."

"I ain't scared of nothin'," he says, just as she lifts herself up to meet his lips. She swallows his lie even as he raises a hand to grip her arm. He intends to push her away but only succeeds in drawing her closer to him, his mouth opening beneath hers and his fingers curling in her long hair to keep her there and her necklace pooling between them, the little cross cool on his skin.

 

Daryl jerks at the sound of her footsteps. "What is it?" he rasps out.

"Walkers outside," she whispers. "It's okay. Just a couple."

He's reaching for his bow before she's gotten out more than the first two words, sitting up and blinking the last of the sleep from his eyes. "Why didn't you wake me?" 

It's harsher than he intended, but she just blinks at him. "It's only a couple," she reiterates, "and they aren't trying to get in. You were sleeping so soundly that I didn't want to interrupt." She smiles softly. "You looked like you were having a good dream."

He blinks again, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as he looks around him. The altar cloth is pooled on the floor on Beth's side of the room, and the candles are all neatly piled in her bag. There is no flickering candlelight to dance in her golden hair, which is still tucked up in its usual ponytail. He looks down at himself, touches his shirt to make sure he's still wearing one. 

Just a dream.

Except that his heart is still pounding a mile a minute. That part is real.

"Daryl?"

He gets to his feet, slides the bow behind his back. "Gonna keep watch."

"I told you, they're not—"

"Gonna keep watch," he snaps out. When her face falls, he shakes his head. It's not her fault he's having… inappropriate thoughts. "Can't sleep now anyway," he says more softly, manages a half-smile. It's enough for her shoulders to ease, for her to smile back at him and nod her head. "You lay down 'n get some more shut eye. I'll wake ya when it's time to head back to camp."

She hesitates for a moment, but when he slumps onto the nearest pew she curls back up on her side, draws the makeshift blanket up to her waist. "You'll wake me if any more show up?"

"I will," he promises.

It only takes a few minutes for her breathing to even out. And he does get up to check the door a few times, climbs on top of the old organ to squint out through a crack in the stained glass to catch sight of a lone walker staggering through the long grass. But mostly he watches Beth sleep, and notices the way the refracted moonlight catches on her little cross, and wonders if his dreams are really that inappropriate after all.


End file.
